Wisdom In The Face Of Danger
by Demolition.Lover.14
Summary: I don't think Moriarty died in the first place. I think he did what Emilia Ricoletti did and faked his death somehow. Or someone is using Moriarty's persona for some reason. Either way, it's not good.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello! I am taking a break from my long hiatus, and hopefully this fic will have been worth the wait! This is another one of my Elspeth Holmes AU fics, in which Sherlock has a teenage daughter - other fics in the series can be found on my profile. Hopefully this makes sense as a stand alone, but context can be found in the other fics._

 _Please read and review, and let me know what you think! I've been away from fanfiction for a long time, but I'm excited to start writing again._

* * *

 _ **1.**_

The room was silent.

Sherlock sat on the floor, quiet, alone. He didn't open his eyes once, not even when he heard the creak of the staircase as someone approached from behind. There was a pause. A moment later, the staircase creaked once more. Sherlock turned his head slightly as the living room door opened, listening to the sound of quiet footsteps approach the window, and before long, a familiar voice spoke. A voice Sherlock had been expecting from the moment he sat down.

"Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

"And possibly," Sherlock responded, his voice just as soft. "my answer has crossed yours."

"Like a bullet," was Jim Moriarty's answer. Opening his eyes, Sherlock climbed to his feet and turned to face the other man with his hand in his pocket, his fingers brushing against the firearm he'd placed there as a precaution. Moriarty seemed to notice the gesture; his dark eyes brightened just a tad. It was peculiar to see a man Sherlock had presumed dead standing in his living room in front of him, but Sherlock had seen quite a few strange things in the past days. "It's a dangerous habit, to finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one's dressing gown." Moriarty smirked. "Or are you just pleased to see me?" He rolled his jaw and tilted his head to the side, cracking the bones of his neck as though he were preparing for battle.

"You'll forgive me for taking precautions," Sherlock said. One could never be too careful when dealing with a dangerous man such as Moriarty.

"I'd be offended if you didn't," Moriarty said, patting the pockets of his jacket like he was searching for something. He reached into the breast pocket, removing a small pistol. "Obviously I've returned the courtesy." Sherlock watched as Moriarty cocked the pistol, then spun it around with his finger through the trigger guard in a careless manner, completely self-assured in his actions despite knowing one slip could put a bullet through the floor. Or worse, one of them. "I like your rooms. They smell so . . . _manly._ "

Sherlock chose to ignore the implications of Moriarty lowering his voice. "I'm sure you've acquainted yourself with them before now."

"Well, you are always away on your little adventures for The Strand. Tell me: does the illustrator travel with you? Do you have to pose –" Moriarty touched his chin with the barrel of his pistol. "– during your deductions?"

Moriarty wandered towards the fireplace; Sherlock turned to keep him in sight. He knew never to turn his back on a man like Moriarty.

"I'm aware of all six occasions you have visited these apartments during my absence."

"I know you are." Running his fingers along the top of the fireplace, Moriarty grimaced. "By the way, you should invest in a lock for Elspeth's bedroom. She's a _very_ sound sleeper, but the way her door creaks . . ." He grimaced a second time. "I almost woke her up, can you imagine how awkward _that_ would have been?"

His blood boiling at the mention of his daughter, Sherlock took a step towards Moriarty. "Leave her out of this."

"Oh, but I do _so_ enjoy our little games. Maybe we should get married – then I can play all the games I want with my dear Elspeth." Moriarty smiled. Sherlock looked like he was going to shoot him, right there on the spot. "Did you know that dust is largely composed of human skin?" Moriarty asked casually, glancing at his dusty fingertips. He licked them clean. "Doesn't taste the same, though. You want your skin fresh . . . just a little crispy."

"Won't you sit down?" Sherlock asked, gesturing towards John Watson's chair beside him. Moriarty ignored him.

"That's all people really are, you know. Dust waiting to be distributed. And it gets everywhere . . . in every breath you take, dancing in every sunbeam, all used-up people." Moriarty continued to ignore Sherlock's insistences that they sit down, staring into the muzzle of his gun. "People, people, people. Can't keep anything shiny," he muttered, blowing into the end and peering down. "Do you mind if I fire this, just to clean it out?"

Three things happened after Moriarty's question. The first was that Moriarty turned the gun and pointed it towards Sherlock, his finger pressed firmly on the trigger. The second was that Sherlock immediately snatched his own gun from his dressing gown pocket and aimed at Moriarty, staring the other man down as though he'd been expecting the threat. The third thing that happened was the living room door opened, and Elspeth Holmes walked in on her father and the man who gave her nightmares pointing guns at each other, her heart skipping a beat as a loud gasp escaped her mouth. Moriarty smirked, looking pleased to see her. Sherlock could see his daughter's reflection in the mirror; he couldn't turn his back on Moriarty. Not while he was holding a gun.

Eventually, almost simultaneously, they lowered the guns. Moriarty held his by his side, while Sherlock placed his on the nearby table.

"Elspeth," he said, turning to face his daughter. Her face had lost most of its colour. She looked torn between yelling and passing out, her eyes flickering towards Sherlock. "This does not concern you. You may be excused to your room, I will let you know when you can come back."

Moriarty tutted. "No, no, no, don't just send her _away_ , Sherlock," he said, walking past the detective and towards Elspeth. The gun swung by his side. "That's awfully rude of you." His shoulder brushed against Elspeth's as he gently closed the door behind her, herding her into the living room before she could do anything, and Elspeth stared at Sherlock fearfully. "Besides, it's been so long since I've seen Elspeth's beautiful face. You wouldn't deny me of this joy, would you?"

"Papa," Elspeth whispered. Sherlock felt helpless, forced to watch as Moriarty approached his daughter and cupped her face with his hand.

"Don't worry, Elspeth," he murmured, stroking her skin with his thumb. Elspeth trembled. "Your father aren't going to kill each other . . ." A slow, shark like grin spread across his face. " _Yet_. We don't need toys to kill each other. Where's the intimacy in that?"

"Your meeting is with me," Sherlock said stiffly. Moriarty absent-mindedly stroked Elspeth's hair behind her ear, continuing the gesture as he tore his eyes away from her and looked back at Sherlock with a bored expression. _I've found a new toy now,_ his face screamed. Sherlock refused to let Moriarty continue to intimidate his daughter the way he was. "You chose to come here."

Raising an eyebrow, Moriarty turned back to Elspeth and leaned in close to whisper something in her ear. It was only brief, but the way his lips brushed against her skin made her shudder and recoil from him, repulsed and terrified.

"Not true," Moriarty said to Sherlock, stepping away from Elspeth. "You know that's not true. What do you want, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stared at Moriarty, the seconds dragging on. "The truth."

"That." Moriarty nodded. He started to walk around the room, Sherlock's eyes following every step, and Elspeth gazed at her father. Her heart raced. "Truth's boring. You didn't expect _me_ to turn up at the scene of the crime, did you? Poor old Sir Eustace. He got what was coming to him."

"But you couldn't have killed him," Sherlock said.

"Oh, so what?" Moriarty retorted, whirling around to face Sherlock. "Does it matter? Stop it. Stop this. You don't care about Sir Eustace, _or_ the Bride or _any_ of it. There's only one thing in this whole business that you find interesting." The room started to rock, decanters and glasses rattling on the table; Elspeth's eyes widened in fear. The shaking stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Moriarty held his pistol near his chin. "The Bride put a gun in her mouth and shot the back of her head off, and then she came back. Impossible. But she did it, and you need to know how. _How_ . . . it's tearing your world apart not knowing."

"Papa," Elspeth said again as the room began to rock once more. "Is that what this is all about? The bride?"

"You're trying to stop me," Sherlock said to Moriarty. He tried to pull himself together, taking in a deep breath and closing his eyes as he cleared his mind, ignoring the way Elspeth's hand clutched the sleeve of his dressing gown. "To distract me, derail me."

The room settled. Elspeth's grip tightened a little, and Sherlock glanced down at her.

"Because doesn't this remind you of another case? Hasn't this all happened before? There's nothing new under the sun," Moriarty said, mocking Sherlock. He was right. This _had_ happened before, and Sherlock had failed to solve the case. "What was it? What was it? What was that case? Huh? Do you remember? Come on, Elspeth, I bet _you_ remember, don't you? You remember everything." Moriarty smirked at Elspeth when she glared at him. "It's on the tip of my tongue . . . it's on the tip of my tongue."

"It's on the tip of my tongue," Sherlock whispered.

"It's on the tip . . ." Moriarty raised his pistol, opened his mouth, and stuck his tongue out. Resting the muzzle against his tongue, he sank down to sit on the low table in front of the sofa. ". . . of my tongue."

"For the sake of Mrs Hudson's wallpaper, I must remind you that one false move with your finger and you will be dead," Sherlock said quickly. He certainly didn't want to see Moriarty blow his own brains out, and the thought of having to subject Elspeth to the sight made Sherlock's stomach clench uncomfortably. He had already seen Moriarty die once. He couldn't watch him die again. Moriarty said something unintelligible, keeping the gun pressed to the tip of his tongue. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm sorry?"

"Dead," Moriarty repeated in a low voice. A grin spread across his face. "is the new sexy."

The room shook, the tremors stronger than ever, and Elspeth clung to Sherlock as Moriarty raised the pistol once again, aiming it at his open mouth.

A gun shot.

Elspeth screamed and Sherlock jumped and Moriarty fell backwards, blood flying into the air. As the room settled once more, Moriarty stood up and shook himself down, ignoring the splatters of blood on his face.

"How is that possible?" Elspeth whispered. " _How_?"

"Well, I'll tell you what," Moriarty said, exhaling heavily. " _that_ rather blows the cobwebs away. How do I look, huh? Huh?" He turned to reveal where the back of his head had been blown out, Sherlock's eyes widening as he stared in disbelief. It wasn't possible. There was absolutely no way it was possible. But Moriarty was there, standing in front of him with the back of his head _gone_ , and he was alive. Elspeth bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. "You can be honest. Is it noticeable?"

"You blew your own brains out," Sherlock said softly. "How could you survive?"

"Well, maybe I could back comb," Moriarty murmured, ignoring Sherlock's questions and gingerly touching his hair. If it wasn't so horrifying, Elspeth would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation.

"I saw you die," Sherlock said. " _Why_ aren't you dead?"

"Because it's not the fall that kills you, Sherlock." Moriarty stepped closer to Sherlock and Elspeth, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Of all people, you should know that. It's not the fall. It's never the fall." Glassware dropped and smashed. The room shook so hard Elspeth almost fell over, and she clung to Sherlock like her life depended on it, unable to tear her eyes from Moriarty. He stared back with a manic look in his eyes. They were shining with glee and excitement, wide and unblinking. "It's the _landing_."

* * *

"Well, a somewhat shorter exile than we'd imagined, brother mine, although adequate given your levels of OCD."

Glassy eyed and breathing heavily, Sherlock stared up at Mycroft. "I have to go back," he insisted. "I was – I was nearly there, I nearly had it!" He'd been so _close._ He'd nearly worked it out; he nearly solved the case of Ricoletti and his abominable wife. John and Mary had no idea what he was talking about, and Mary even insisted he wasn't making any sense, but he _was_ and he'd been so _close_. "It was a case, a famous one from a hundred years ago, lodged in my hard drive. She seemed to be dead but then she came back – shot herself in the head, _exactly_ like Moriarty."

Frowning, Mary sat on the seat opposite Sherlock. "But you've only just been told," she said, struggling to lean forwards over the swell of her pregnant stomach. "We've only just found out. He's on every TV screen in the country."

"Yes? So? It's been five minutes since Mycroft called." Sherlock looked at Mycroft. "What progress have you made? What have you been doing?"

"More to the point, what have _you_ been doing?" John asked, laughing.

"I've been in my Mind Palace, of course –" Sherlock ignored John's sarcastic retort of, "Of course!" and continued, "– running an experiment: how would I have solved the crime if I'd been there in 1895? I had all the details perfect. I was there, all of it, everything! I was immersed."

"You've been reading John's blog – the story of how you met," Mary said with a fond smile. She was being sentimental. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her.

"Helps me if I see myself through his eyes sometimes. I'm so much cleverer."

Mycroft sunk into a chair on the other side of the aisle, watching his brother closely. He wasn't fooled, and he told Sherlock so; he knew when his brother was high. He told Sherlock to stop it when he tried to divert the conversation back to his weight gain, closing his eyes for a moment as the list dropped to the floor and John bent to pick it up, the doctor's eyes widening in shock. Mycroft knew there would be a list. There was always a list. He remembered when it all began, the day they sat on Sherlock's bed together. All Mycroft had done was watch his brother writhe in agony, helpless. There was nothing he could do to help him. Sherlock had fooled everyone.

"No one deceives like an addict," Mycroft said in a hollow voice, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. The younger Holmes couldn't look his brother in the eyes, so Mycroft glanced at Mary, who was typing on her phone. "What are you doing?"

"Emilia Ricoletti," she said. "I'm looking her up."

Mycroft cleared his throat. Sentimentality wouldn't help Sherlock. "Ah, I suppose we should," he said. "I have access to the top level of the MI5 archive –" Mary interrupted to let Mycroft know that was exactly where she was looking, a wide grin spreading across her face. Mycroft shifted his weight. "What do you think of MI5's security?"

"I _think_ it would be a good idea," Mary said. Her eyebrows rose and her grin widened, and John couldn't help but smile fondly at his wife. "Emelia Ricoletti. Unsolved."

Bowing his head, Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. Everyone was talking; there was too much _talking_.

"Could you all just shut up for five minutes?" he demanded. "I have to go back. I was nearly there before you stepped on and starting yapping away."

"Yapping?" John repeated sarcastically. "Sorry – did we interrupt your session?"

"Sherlock, listen to me," Mycroft said. He leaned forwards and gazed at his brother, trying to show him how much he _cared_. Contrary to belief, Mycroft _cared_ about Sherlock and Elspeth, and he did all he could to look after them because they were both so reckless. Sherlock had his drug addiction and fixation on Moriarty, and Elspeth's behaviour was becoming more and more unpredictable as the days went by. There was no telling what she would do. "I'm not angry with you. I was there for you before. I'll be there for you again. I'll _always_ be there for you – for you _and_ Elspeth."

"Hang on," Mary said, slowly looking up from her phone and glancing over her shoulder. Her brow furrowed. "Where _is_ Ellie?"

Even Sherlock raised his head at the question, his eyes narrowing as he realised his daughter wasn't by his side like she usually was. It wasn't like Elspeth to avoid him, and if Moriarty really _was_ back as the evidence suggested, the first place she would normally go to would be wherever Sherlock was. She would've been the first to shout when she found out he was high. She would've told him how much of an idiot he was, turned her head away so he wouldn't see the tears, and told him she didn't know what she would do without him. But Elspeth was nowhere to be found.

"The car's gone," John said. "She's taken one of the cars."

"Don't be ridiculous, she can't drive," Sherlock said.

"No one is suggesting she's driving without a licence," Mycroft said, having lost most of his patience for his brother after realising Sherlock was high. It didn't help that Elspeth had decided to play silly buggers and disappear – in one of _his_ cars. He took his phone out, dialling Elspeth's number. It went straight to voicemail. "Elspeth, I don't know what you think you're doing, but now is not the time to start fooling around. Tell the driver to come back – _immediately_."

"She won't come back," Sherlock murmured. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes for a moment. Where would he go if he was Elspeth? He expected her to attach herself to his side and cling to him, ducking her head so he wouldn't see the fear in her eyes when they discussed Moriarty. "She'll have gone back to London."

"Back home?" John asked. It was his best guess; he couldn't imagine where else Elspeth would go. Not with Moriarty's face plastered all over London.

"Probably. She's distressed, she'll go to the first place she can think of," Sherlock said, opening his eyes. "She won't stay there long. She isn't stupid . . ." He was quiet for a moment. "Don't bother trying to find her, Mycroft," he added, noticing the phone in his brother's hand. "We both know it'll only end in tears."

Mycroft sighed. "She really does pick her moments, doesn't she?"

"I wonder where she gets _that_ from."

Lowering his gaze, Mycroft muttered, "This is _my_ fault. A week in a prison cell. I should've realised."

"Realised _what_?" Sherlock demanded.

"That in your case, solitary confinement is locking you up with your worst enemy."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother's dramatics. He wanted to tell Mycroft that his decision to take the drugs was nothing to do with him, and that the world did not, in fact, revolve around Mycroft Holmes, but he was interrupted by John Watson's abrupt demand.

"Morphine or cocaine?"

* * *

Ignoring Mrs Hudson's startled cries, Elspeth slammed the door of 221B shut behind her and raced up the stairs, her heart racing. The living room door banged when she pushed it shut, making it clear she didn't want to be disturbed. She snatched the remote from the arm of the sofa and turned on the TV. Straight away, Moriarty's face filled the screen. Elspeth bit her lip. His dark eyes penetrated hers from across the room. His animated jaw bobbed up and down, the high pitched voice repeating the same phrase over and over like a broken record.

 _Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

Elspeth wanted to turn it off. She rolled the remote around in her hand, aiming it at the screen.

It had been years since her encounter with Moriarty. He'd been so _innocent_ when he pretended to be Molly's boyfriend, a bundle of nerves with sweaty palms and shaky laughter and adoring eyes he couldn't tear away from Sherlock. He was a completely different person the night at the pool. He was Moriarty. She still had nightmares. His fingers digging into her waist, her hips, her thighs. His voice in her ear. His lips on her skin. Elspeth knew it he wasn't interested in her; it was just about sending a message to Sherlock. She was collateral damage. She almost wished he'd strapped the bombs to her rather than John – anything was better than that night.

She left the TV on. Elspeth knew it was stupid to torture herself, but she wanted to prove to herself that she wasn't afraid anymore. Glaring at Moriarty's face on the screen, she picked up Sherlock's laptop and sat at the table in the living room. Her laptop was upstairs. Besides, if Moriarty was up to anything, he would've contacted Sherlock.

Elspeth checked everything she could think of. Emails, blogs, all of Sherlock's files. Nothing.

"Come on," she muttered under her breath. "There has to be _something_." She looked up at the TV screen, meeting Moriarty's eyes. "What are you up to?"

"Ain't talking to yourself the first sign of madness?"

"Good, you got my text," Elspeth said as Bill sat next to her. "I'm guessing you've seen the news then?"

"'Is face is all over London, Els, it's kinda impossible to miss." Bill rested his head in his hand, watching Elspeth as she searched desperately through Sherlock's emails for a second time, hitting the refresh button in case Moriarty decided to make contact. If it was Moriarty. "I don't think Sherlock would be too 'appy if you broke 'is computer."

"I'll get him a new one." Elspeth frowned. "How has he done this? _How_?" She drummed her fingers against the table. "People don't just come back from the dead – Dad did it, but he wasn't really _dead_ and he had planned it all. Moriarty blew his own head off, so unless he somehow used a _double_ –" She stopped. "Oh my God."

Bill frowned. He recognised the look on Elspeth's face. It was the look she got when she'd realised something, or all her ideas had somehow clicked into place, and he tried not to flinch when she smacked him on the arm with such enthusiasm his skin was red. She was so caught up in the moment she didn't realise she'd hurt him, too excited to have finally worked it out to notice Bill's quiet "Ow." That was it. She'd learned about this sort of case before. It was something Sherlock once told her, and Elspeth never thought it was important, but now it all made perfect sense.

"Emelia Ricoletti," Elspeth said to Bill. "That's how Moriarty did it – like Emilia Ricoletti!"


	2. Chapter 2

_**2.**_

Tired of Mary's teasing and implications that he was the slower, and therefore less intelligent, of the Holmes brother, Sherlock picked entered the small chapel and announced his arrival with a rather loud strike of the gong. John Watson looked mortified that the hooded figure's chanting had been interrupted, his face losing some of its colour when they all turned to the four standing the back of the room. Mary looked rather excited – she'd been hiding her alternative lifestyle from her husband for far too long – and Elspeth bit her lip in an almost anxious manner, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as Sherlock strode forwards and apologised for his dramatic entrance.

"Emelia Ricoletti shot herself, then apparently returned from the grave and killed her husband," Sherlock said. "So, how was it done? Let's take the events in order."

It was quite obvious once Sherlock explained it. Emilia Ricoletti didn't shoot herself, but rather staged it with a well placed gun and an accomplice spraying blood onto the curtain behind her, replacing her apparent corpse with another who bared a strong resemblance to herself. Later, Emilia was able to frighten her husband with nothing more than a play. With a little make up and a strategically placed manhole cover, Emilia Ricoletti rose from the dead a final time before ending her life for definite, thus allowing other women to take her place as the scorned bride.

Elspeth listened to Sherlock, her lips twitching into a semblance of a smile. It was remarkable.

"But why would she do that – die to prove a point?" Mary asked, breaking the silence that followed Sherlock's explanation.

"Every great cause has martyrs; every war has suicide missions – and make no mistake, this is war. One half of the human race at war with the other. The invisible army hovering at our elbow, attending to our homes, raising our children, ignored, patronised, disregarded, not allowed so much as a vote." As Sherlock spoke, the hooded figures revealed themselves to be women. "But an army nonetheless, ready to rise up in the best of causes, to put right an injustice as old as humanity itself. So, you see, Watson, Mycroft was right. This is a war we _must_ lose."

Sherlock paused to glance back at Elspeth, who couldn't help but beam back at him. As a woman she was denied many things, but what upset her the most was her exclusion from John's stories. She was nothing more than a shadow in his writings. Mrs Hudson was annoyed John reduced her to a housekeeper and a story device, but Elspeth wasn't so much as mentioned as the great Sherlock Holmes' daughter. All because she was a woman.

To see her father, however, finally understand the injustice of it was enough to make her heart swell with pride.

"She was dying," John said. He'd examined the body himself. "Emilia Ricoletti. There were clear signs of consumption. I doubt she was long for this world."

"So she decided to make her death count," Sherlock said. "She was already familiar with the secret societies of America and was able to draw on their methods of fear and intimidation to publicly – very publicly – confront Sir Eustace Carmichael with the sins of his past."

"He knew her out in the States," a familiar voice called across the crypt. Sherlock turned again. His eyes widened when Dr Hooper – not a male, as he'd always thought, but a woman – strode into view with her lips pressed into a tight line. "Promised her everything. Marriage, position – and then he had his way with her and threw her over, left her abandoned and penniless."

John smiled, pleased that he'd known all that time Hooper was female and Sherlock hadn't. Elspeth stepped forwards.

"Hello Molly," she said quietly, smiling at her friend. Hooper's expression softened.

"Emelia thought that she'd found happiness with Ricoletti, but he was a brute too," Janine, a dark haired woman with a thick Irish accent, said. "Emelia Ricoletti was our friend. You have no idea how that bastard treated her."

Sherlock realised the night at Carmichael's house, the night he and John saw the Bride, was nothing more than part of the women's scheme – they used an old theatrical trick, Pepper's Ghost, to trick them all into believing she was really there. Any one of those women could've been the Bride. As Sherlock told John so, he couldn't help but think that at one point, perhaps Elspeth would've been drawn to the elaborate plot. He knew the inequality frustrated her, but she wasn't a vengeful person by any means. Then again, he hadn't realised Hooper was female.

"One small detail doesn't quite make sense to me, however," he said, turning to face the only woman dressed in a wedding gown with the veil hanging over her face. It was Lady Carmichael. "Why engage me to prevent a murder you intended to commit?"

Lady Carmichael laughed. "It doesn't quite make sense, this doesn't quite make sense." It wasn't Carmichael's voice, as Sherlock expected, but someone else's. "Of course it doesn't make sense. It's not real." Lifting the veil to reveal his face, Moriarty smirked at Sherlock's horrified expression. "I mean, come on, be serious. Costumes, the gong. Speaking as a criminal mastermind, we don't really have gongs, or special outfits." He stepped closer as Sherlock closed his eyes. The room felt like it was fading. "Is this silly enough for you yet? Gothic enough? Mad enough, even for you? It doesn't make sense, Sherlock, because it's not real. _None_ of it."

* * *

"I don't get it," John said. Sherlock resisted the urge to point out his friend said that quite frequently, and instead took a spade out of the boot that Lestrade had been so kind to bring after Sherlock's request. John couldn't understand why Sherlock had to dig up Emilia Ricoletti's grave, insisting that the entire investigation was in his head, but the crime still happened exactly as Sherlock described it.

"I don't know what you think you'll find here," Mycroft sneered as Sherlock strode past with the spade.

"I need to try!"

Before long, John and Mary had left after John suggested that Moriarty was just another fix for Sherlock. "Perhaps you should put this much time and effort into finding your daughter," he'd said before he left, angry and hurt Sherlock spent more time on a case that occurred years ago rather than dealing with the real life problem staring them in the face. Moriarty was back, and Sherlock didn't seem to care. Mycroft didn't leave. He didn't say anything to Sherlock, but he did stay and set up portable lights as it got darker, illuminating the grave with a torch while his brother and Lestrade continued to dig. Sherlock thought about calling Elspeth. He wondered if it would be the right thing to do, hoping wherever she was, she was safe.

It took both Lestrade and Sherlock to lift the coffin from the grave, opening the lid with a crowbar. The smell was appalling. Even Sherlock felt his stomach churn and bile rise to the back of his throat as he leaned over the rotting skeletal corpse still wearing the remains of a wedding dress. A few worms wriggled in the eye sockets of the skull; it was their home.

Finally understanding why Elspeth was so repulsed by death, Sherlock rummaged through the coffin and under the corpse, searching for the second body.

"Oh dear, the cupboard is bare," Mycroft said, shining his torch over the coffin.

"They must have buried it underneath. They must have buried it underneath the coffin," Sherlock insisted. Rising to his feet, he jumped into the grave. He'd forgotten the spade but it didn't matter as he scrabbled into the dirt like a dog, tossing handfuls of dirt over the sides so he could look for another body or coffin. There was one buried beneath the first. He was certain of it.

"Bad luck, Sherlock," Lestrade said from above him. "Maybe they got rid of the body in another way."

"More than likely," Mycroft agreed. "At any rate, it was a very long time ago. We do have slightly more pressing matters to hand, little brother. Elspeth is still missing and Moriarty – back from the dead?"

Sherlock ignored them, looking up only when he heard a woman's voice whispering. Not whispering. Singing. Mycroft and Lestrade seemed to hear it as well; they both turned as the skeletal hand of the corpse seemed to rise of its own accord. The arm straightened out. Sherlock frowned. The coffin shook and the corpse's head lifted. A woman screamed, her fury ringing in Sherlock's ears. He froze, his eyes widening as the skeleton plunged into the grave on top of him, flattening him until the world went dark –

"Oh, I see," Sherlock said after a rather violent awakening, propping himself up on one elbow. He was on a narrow rocky ledge, a massive waterfall plunging over the side of the mountain a few feet away. "Still not awake, am I?"

* * *

"Who's Amelia Ricoletti?"

"Not Amelia, _Emilia,_ " Elspeth said, clicking the internet icon at the bottom of the laptop screen. "Basically she was this woman – she was dying of consumption, so she killed her husband and pretended to kill herself but – here's the amazing thing – she swapped her 'body' with a corpse so she could come back."

"'uh," Bill said under his breath. "What 'appened after that?"

"She killed herself properly, but other women – her friends – used the persona of the bride to kill their husbands and other men who wronged them. Cool, right?" Elspeth grinned from ear to ear as it all clicked into place. "Moriarty must've done something similar."

"So 'e's back from the dead?" Bill guessed, struggling to keep up with Elspeth's rapid train of thought.

"I don't think Moriarty died in the first place. I think he did what Emilia Ricoletti did and faked his death somehow." Elspeth bit her lip as an unsettling thought formed in her mind. "Or someone is using Moriarty's persona for some reason. Either way, it's not good." Sighing, she wished for a fleeting moment that she hadn't been so hasty in leaving Mycroft and Sherlock after seeing Moriarty's face on the screen. She'd just jumped in the car and told the driver to take her back to London. She didn't even think about it. "It's not good," she repeated under her breath.

Elspeth stared at the internet home page. She'd meant to look up Emilia Ricoletti and show Bill the records, but she'd hit a blank. It didn't matter. If Moriarty was back – if he had faked his own death like Emilia Ricoletti – all that mattered was _how_ he did it and _why_. What was he going to do next?

Perhaps he knew about Sherlock's imminent exile. He wanted to draw Sherlock out, pick up where they left off . . . Moriarty was all about games. He loved them. He played them with Sherlock and John, Elspeth, all the innocent people who happened to get in his way. As long as there was a game to play, Moriarty was involved. Somehow. It was an uncomfortable thought. The last person Elspeth wanted to see was Jim Moriarty, but if he really was alive, she'd have to face him sooner or later.

She almost laughed. She spent years hoping Sherlock wasn't dead, and now she wished Moriarty was.

Sighing, Elspeth typed Emilia Ricoletti's into the search engine and opened the first few websites she could find. Most of them said the same thing – that Emilia Ricoletti faked her death, assumed the role of the scorned bride a final time, then allowed her friends and loved ones to use the persona to torment and punish their husbands. A lot of people speculated on the reason for Ricoletti's need for revenge. Some said her husband was unfaithful, others said he was abusive. When Elspeth read that Emilia Ricoletti had been dying of consumption, she felt a twinge of sadness. She already knew, but it was still sad.

"What's that look for?" Bill asked her. Elspeth raised her eyebrow at him. "You got that sad look on your face. Something's upset you."

"Just . . . imagine spending your last days filled with so much anger and hatred," she murmured. "Emilia Ricoletti was dying, and she hated her husband so much she used the little time she had left to kill him." Elspeth bit her lip. "You've got to really hate someone to do that."

"Would you ever do it?"

"Kill someone in my last few dying days? Yeah, of course," Elspeth joked. Bill laughed, leaned back in his chair, and pulled Sherlock's laptop closer to him so he could read about Emilia Ricoletti. Elspeth stopped smiling, and started thinking.

Could she kill someone if she knew she was dying? Elspeth hated Moriarty for what he did to her and her family, but even the mere thought of killing him made her feel as evil as he was. Elspeth didn't know what she would do if she found out she was dying. Cry. Spend as much time as she could with Sherlock and John. Make peace with her mother. There were still so many restaurants she wanted to try, galleries she wanted to see, people to meet and places to go.

For a moment, Elspeth wondered how Sherlock felt going up to the roof, knowing he wouldn't walk away. He must've been so scared.

"Do you want some tea?" Elspeth asked, getting up without waiting for Bill's response. She took her phone through to the kitchen. It had been lighting up with missed calls and text alerts, but she'd barely paid it any attention, too focused on Moriarty and Emilia Ricoletti and fake deaths. While the kettle boiled, she unlocked her phone and went through the messages.

Most of the missed calls were from Mycroft, accompanied by voicemails.

" _Elspeth, I don't know what you think you're doing, but now is not the time to start fooling around. Tell the driver to come back – immediately_."

" _My patience is wearing thin, Elspeth. You need to stop messing around and come back right now. I won't ask again."_

" _Elspeth, this is serious. Call me back._ "

Rolling her eyes, Elspeth deleted all the voicemails from Mycroft. He wasn't best pleased she borrowed the car, but it wasn't like she was joyriding; she simply asked the driver to bring her back to London. She may have told him that it was with Mycroft's permission, but that was a white lie. No one got hurt.

There was a missed call from Mary, and a less-than-impressed text from John telling her to get her arse back to that plane or he would drag her there if it was the last thing he did. Nothing from Sherlock. It was a relief to know her father trusted her, but Elspeth couldn't shake the feeling he may not have even noticed her absence, or simply didn't care. It was a ridiculous thought. Of course he would notice she was gone – even if Mycroft, John, and Mary had to point it out to him.

Quickly, Elspeth typed out a quick message to Sherlock: **I'm ok.** Her thumb hovered over the send button. Then over the delete button. Back over the send button.

Elspeth bit her lip. She deleted the message, then turned her phone on silent and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans. She was fine. She was an adult; she didn't need them running around after her like she was still a child.

She glanced over at the TV, at Moriarty's puppet-like face. _Did you miss me?_

She may have been an adult, but looking into Moriarty's dark eyes still made her wish Sherlock was there to look after her. Elspeth sighed. She hated that she was still scared of him and she wished it was all just a bad dream she could wake up from, but she was the only one still in London and she knew what had happened – or, she thought she knew what had had happened. A part of her wanted to call Mycroft or Sherlock to tell them what she'd found out, but part of her wanted to do it on her own and prove to them that she could be helpful. Magnussen once implied she was useless, and Elspeth never forgot it.

"Els," Bill called over. Elspeth jumped, looking across the room at him in surprise. "Kettle's done boiling."

How long had she been standing there? Elspeth grinned sheepishly, straightening up and taking a couple of mugs from the cupboard. Her hands brushed against the nice china – the matching tea cups and saucers Sherlock used when he made tea for him and Moriarty, a meeting she'd narrowly avoided. But then she'd bumped into Moriarty on his way out, and it felt like his mere gaze had frozen her to the spot.

Bill thanked Elspeth when she handed him his tea, sipping it. "I'll tell you what, Els, you make a good cup of tea."

"I've had years of practise," she said with a wry grin, sitting next to him and curling her legs up to her chest. "Ok, let's say – for arguments sake – that Moriarty _is_ alive. He somehow miraculously survived a bullet to the head, or did something similar to Emilia Ricoletti and faked his death – or maybe it wasn't even _him_ on the roof, it was his evil twin. Where would he go?"

Mulling over everything Elspeth had said to him, Bill sipped his tea again. It was hard to keep up with her sometimes.

"Uh . . . I dunno, somewhere 'e's been before? Somewhere where 'e can be all dramatic or whatever?" Bill shrugged. "'e likes playing games, don't 'e? Seems like the sort of thing 'e would do."

Elspeth lowered her mug. She gazed at Bill for a few seconds, deep in thought. "You're a lot smarter than people give you credit for, you know that?"

"Do people think I'm stupid?"

Jumping to her feet, Elspeth put her mug on the table and picked her coat up from where she'd flung it across the room, spinning around in her haste to pull it back on. She pushed her hair off her shoulders, reaching for the TV remote. For the first time that afternoon, Elspeth looked at Moriarty's image on the screen and grinned. There were a few places he could be. A few select places in London, but she had a feeling she knew exactly where he was. She turned the TV off.

"Els, what are you doing?" Bill asked, watching Elspeth pick up her bag. He didn't like the look in her eyes. He didn't like it at all. She ignored him, picking up a hair band and tying her hair into a messy bun with a few stray strands falling onto her cheeks, pausing to check her reflection in the mirror. Elspeth hoped she looked more confident than she felt. "Els." Bill grabbed Elspeth's arm. "Where are you going?"

"The place it all ended," Elspeth said. "I'm going back to the roof."

"Are you nuts? What if 'e's there? What if someone else is? You ain't gonna stand a chance."

Bill's hand tightened – not enough to hurt her, but enough to make Elspeth realise he was worried about her. It was almost as if he was trying to stop her. He wouldn't though; she knew he would let her go eventually.

"I have my phone. I'll tell Dad and Mycroft where I am, you'll know where I am," Elspeth said, her voice soft. She bit her lip. She didn't sound all that confident. "Please Bill, I know what I'm doing."

"What if 'e is there, though? What if, God forbid, Moriarty is there?"

Elspeth swallowed past the lump in her throat. "I guess that's just a chance I have to take."

* * *

 _Thank you to all those who have read, reviewed, favourite, and followed. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, don't forget to let me know what you think!_


	3. Chapter 3

_**3.**_

He remembered falling.

He remembered the fight with Moriarty, John stepping in at the last minute, Moriarty screaming as he fell further into the abyss. But most of all, Sherlock remembered falling.

"Between you and me, John, I _always_ survive a fall."

"How?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson."

Sherlock jerked awake, his vision blurry and his breathing rapid. He looked around, taking in his surroundings. Mary was in the chair opposite him, still concerned, still heavily pregnant. Mycroft was in the middle of the aisle a few paces from her, watching Sherlock with eyes like a hawk. John stood over him, a hand resting on the headrest of Sherlock's chair, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile up at him as their eyes met.

"Miss me?" he asked.

Elspeth was gone. Still. Sherlock didn't know if he'd expected her to return, or when he expected her to come back, but his smile dropped a little when he realised she wasn't there.

It was John who interrupted Sherlock's train of thought. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Yes, of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You probably just OD'd," Mary explained. She folded her hands over her stomach, frowning with concern as she gazed at Sherlock. "You should be in a hospital."

Sherlock snorted. "No time," he said dismissively, rising from his chair. "I have to go to Baker Street now. Moriarty's back." Sherlock stumbled as he stepped into the aisle, shaking his head and trying to regain his balance. "Someone try Ellie again – tell her it's important, she needs to meet us back home."

"Elspeth still refuses to answer her phone," Mycroft said. He knew; he'd left her several voicemails. All of them were ignored. "I almost hope Moriarty _is_ back, if it'll save you from this."

Mycroft held up the list.

Sherlock gazed at it for a second, his defensive walls falling momentarily before he snatched the paper from his older brother, tearing it in half, then tearing it in half again, and letting the pieces fall to the ground in an act of defiance, a way of showing Mycroft he didn't want the help no matter how much he needed it. He'd always been like that. Stubborn. It drove Mycroft insane, but he bit his tongue when Sherlock glanced at him with exasperation in his eyes. No matter how hard he tried, Sherlock would never accept Mycroft's help. Not unless it was on his terms.

"No need for that now," Sherlock said. It was a surprise he didn't dig the pieces of paper into the airplane carpet with the heel of his boot. "Got the real thing. I have work to do."

"Sherlock," Mycroft murmured. For once, he didn't look at his brother with equal exasperation, but rather an expression of vulnerability. There was no denying Mycroft Holmes' biggest weakness was his brother, even if he didn't let it show. He cared about Sherlock. He only wanted the best for his brother, and he'd hoped that after Elspeth came into their lives, the drug overdoses would stop. Perhaps he was wrong. "Promise me?"

Eyes flickering, Sherlock looked from John to Mary to Mycroft, his lips tugging into a frown. "What are you still doing here? Shouldn't you be off getting me a pardon or something, like a _proper_ big brother?"

He continued forwards, pushing Mycroft out of the way with a bump of his shoulder. Mary followed. John stopped when Mycroft called after him.

"Doctor Watson." Mycroft paused. John waited. "Look after him. And Elspeth." He gave John a small but genuine smile as he added, "Please?"

John didn't say anything, but he did nod before ducking out of the plane, and that was all Mycroft could ask for. Sherlock and Elspeth may have refused his help, or ignored his existence entirely as it seemed in Elspeth's case, but at least Mycroft could rely on John Watson to look after and care for them both in his absence. They were very alike, Sherlock and Elspeth. Irresponsible. Unpredictable. Reckless. Kneeling, Mycroft collected the torn pieces of the list and placed them in the notebook he carried in his breast pocket. He dreaded to think where Elspeth had gone, or what she was doing.

She was just as bad as Sherlock, if not worse on occasion. She was younger, not as wise, and far more vulnerable than her father, it seemed. Where Sherlock cut his emotions off, Elspeth allowed them to overflow. She cared entirely too much for people – the wrong people, sometimes – and loved and trusted to an extent that bordered on idiocy, if one were to ask for Mycroft's opinion.

Closing the notebook, Mycroft tucked it back into his pocket and rose to his feet. He just hoped Elspeth was safe, wherever she had disappeared to.

Outside, Sherlock had a similar thought. For once in his life, he wasn't certain where Elspeth had gone. He suspected back to Baker Street, initially. As much as she denied it, Elspeth was a creature of habit and if she was scared, she would go to the one place that made her feel safe – home. She wouldn't stay there, though. Sherlock knew Elspeth would've worked something out, or was up to something, but what he didn't know. There was no point in trying to contact her. She'd ignored Mycroft, Mary, and John. She would just ignore him too.

"Sherlock, hang on," John said, interrupting Sherlock's thoughts as he walked towards the remaining car. "Moriarty's alive, then?"

"I said he was _back_ ," Sherlock clarified.

"So he's dead," Mary said. It was a logical assumption. If something – or someone – was not alive, then they were dead. Sherlock wasn't so sure.

"He blew his own brains out," he said. "No one survives that. I just went to the trouble of an overdose to prove it." John raised his eyebrows disapprovingly, and Sherlock couldn't help but shoot him a guilty glance. He knew it was a stupid idea. He knew he shouldn't have done it, and he felt very much like a child being scolded by a parent when John looked at him like that. Worst of all, he felt like he'd let his friend down. "Moriarty is _back_ , no question – dead or not, I don't know. But more importantly, I know _exactly_ what he's going to do next."

* * *

No one noticed Elspeth in the hospital.

It was like the whole of London had been reduced to hysterics, the sight of Moriarty's face been plastered on every screen available driving people mad. Elspeth had stuck her earphones in and blasted the loudest music she had on her IPod as she walked through the streets of London, trying desperately to block out the sound of his high pitched voice asking that stupid question over and over. She kept her head ducked and her hood up. If she didn't listen, if she didn't look anyone in the eye, she would go unnoticed.

It worked. Elspeth was able to weave through the crowds, pushing her way through the mob as she reached Bart's Hospital and jogged up the front steps as she had done so many times before. It felt like she'd spent most of her life in that hospital.

Elspeth knew the way to the fire escape leading up to the roof like she knew the back of her hand, and she strode through the corridors like a woman possessed. No one stopped her. She doubted if anyone even noticed her. She didn't take her hood down, keeping her head ducked when she passed CCTV cameras; the last thing Elspeth wanted was for Mycroft to find out where she was. She almost hoped someone would stop her. A member of staff, a patient, maybe even Molly Hooper; the pathologist was probably as hysterical as Mrs Hudson as been. Elspeth knew what she had to do, but it didn't make her feel any more confident.

The door wasn't locked. Maybe it was used more frequently than she realised, or maybe someone had already unlocked it.

Elspeth carefully closed the door behind her. She didn't let it swing back and shut with a thud, but pushed it closed and did it gently, so there was a tiny _click_ and she was left in the darkness of the stairwell.

It wasn't too late. She could turn around.

The thought swam through her mind as she ascended the stairs. Before she knew it, Elspeth was at the top and there was a second door and even through the metal, she could hear the song playing. She knew the song; she didn't recognise its significance. If it had been anyone else, Elspeth would've laughed at the irony of the music playing and taken the piss, but she knew who was waiting for her on the other side of the door and her heart raced.

She pushed the door open. Slowly, carefully; just like she had done with the first.

The cool air hit Elspeth, her vision blurring when she realised just how _high_ she was. She couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock had been scared. He'd never been scared of heights, and he'd planned everything before even stepping foot on that roof, but even so . . .

Elspeth closed the door, staring ahead of her for a few seconds so she could pretend she hadn't noticed the figure at the other end of the roof, sitting on the ledge like it was a park bench and they were two friends meeting for a catch up. She could see him out of the corner of her eye. Elspeth didn't know if he'd noticed her, or if he'd turned his head. Maybe he could just see her out of the corner of his eye too. Was she who he expected? Or had he been hoping for someone else?

She took in a deep breath, forcing herself to keep a passive expression as she turned and walked towards Jim Moriarty.

He turned his head a fraction. His eyes widened for a moment, genuine surprise flickering as he saw her. Elspeth tried not to smirk; he'd been expecting Sherlock, after all.

"Ellie Holmes," Moriarty called over the music. His voice carried on the wind and sent shivers down Elspeth's spine. He smirked. "How lovely to see you again."

Elspeth stopped a short distance from him. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her hoodie and commented, "You look shockingly alive for a man who supposedly shot himself in the head."

Moriarty's smirk grew into a grin, one side of his mouth rising before the other, and Elspeth could see how he made Molly Hooper fall for him. She tried not to flinch away when he turned the music off suddenly, standing up and taking a step towards her. She imagined he'd hoped it was intimidate her somehow. That night at the pool, Moriarty had used his height to his advantage; Elspeth wasn't short but Moriarty was still quite a bit taller than her. He had loomed over her. He had pushed her against the wall and trapped her there with his hand by her head, his hot breath tickling her skin as he leaned in close.

"You know what they say," Moriarty said, deepening his voice a little as he strolled towards Elspeth in a dramatically casual manner. He mimicked her stance and put his hands into the pockets of his coat, hunching his shoulders. Elspeth stiffened. She knew he was mocking her. "Dead is the new sexy."

He stopped in front of her. Their toes were practically touching and Elspeth felt Moriarty's breath in her face, watching as he reached out and gently plucked her earphones out. He waved his finger like she was some sort of naughty schoolchild.

"Didn't you know it's rude not to give someone your undivided attention when you're having a conversation with them?"

Elspeth swallowed past the lump in her throat. She jerked away when he pushed her hood down, threading his fingers through her hair with a look of complete concentration on his face. She had _his_ undivided attention.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't think I would be having a conversation with a _dead_ man today."

"And yet you still came to the roof," Moriarty quipped. He continued to play with her hair, tucking it behind her ear before trailing his finger along the length of her cheekbone in a lazy caress. Elspeth felt the blush rising. "It's a nice surprise, I have to say. I was expecting _Sherlock_ but . . ." His gaze lowered to her lips before flickering back up to her eyes. "You beat him to it. Clever girl."

"Emilia Ricoletti," Elspeth blurted out. Moriarty raised his eyebrows, and Elspeth took his momentary confusion to put a little bit of space between them, stepping backwards. "Emilia Ricoletti – faked her death, swapped her body with a corpse, killed herself for real and let her friends use the persona as a scorned bride to get revenge on men who treated them poorly." The words spilled out before she could stop herself, and Moriarty looked more and more amused as Elspeth continued to ramble. "You didn't die – you faked it, or that wasn't you on the roof . . . it was all set up – it was all fake – it . . ." Her voice trailed off when she realised Moriarty was smirking. Mocking her. Again. "You faked your death," she said with forced confidence. "Somehow."

"Is that what you think?" Moriarty asked. He began to circle her like a predator stalking its prey, and Elspeth tried not to tremble when he came round to face her once more. "Is that _really_ what you think?"

"I –" Elspeth stammered. "I – it – I –"

"I – I – I," Moriarty mimicked, putting on a ridiculously high voice as he pretended to be Elspeth. He shook his head. His expression changed completely, going through high and gleeful to annoyed and almost a bit disappointed. He moaned. "No, no, no, it wasn't meant to be like _this_. You're meant to be clever but you're just _STUPID._ " The last word he screamed in her face, his fingers digging into her shoulders as Moriarty shook Elspeth like a ragdoll, and she couldn't stop the fearful tears from spilling over when she struggled to pull away. His grip loosened a little, but he didn't let go. His hands were tight enough on her shoulders to keep her in place, reminding her that he was bigger and stronger and they were playing by his rules now. "Come on now, Ellie, sweetheart. You're better than this. You're clever."

Elspeth closed her eyes and lifted her hands, wiping the tears away as she lowered her head, feeling Moriarty's chest against her forehead. She didn't try to pull away anymore. She knew it was hopeless. In response, Moriarty held her even closer in a mocking embrace that was merely the action without any of the sentiment behind it, and Elspeth hated that he could control her in that way.

"Come on now, Ellie," Moriarty murmured. His lips brushed against her ear. "Tell me how I did it."

His voice was an alluring sing-song, almost seductive in its tone. Elspeth squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. Her head pounded. She pushed herself away from Moriarty's embrace, the sudden movement loosening his grip on her, and turned her back on him as she lifted her head and ran her hands down her face, trying desperately to think of a solution.

She should've told Sherlock and Mycroft where she was. She should've let them deal with Moriarty any way they pleased. But it was too late; she doubted either of them would be walking away from the roof this time.

Aware that Moriarty's eyes were burning into the back of her head, Elspeth thought as hard as she could. Emilia Ricoletti had been the solution – she was certain of it. Moriarty made her doubt herself, though.

Slowly, Elspeth turned around to face Moriarty again.

"Well?" he asked.

"I . . ." Elspeth stared at him. "I don't know," she admitted in a small voice. "I don't know how you did it."

Moriarty stared at her with an expression akin to disbelief, his lips twitching into a smirk. "You don't know?" he repeated incredulously. "You _don't know_ , but you came hurtling up here anyway to confront me? The big bad wolf whose been giving you nightmares?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Elspeth snapped. She stood her ground when Moriarty invaded her personal space once again, slightly more confident seeing as they were in the centre of the roof rather than so close to the ledge. "I don't know how you did it, but I do know you're alive and there is nothing stopping me from calling Dad and Mycroft and letting them know _exactly_ where you are."

"You're not going to do that," Moriarty said. He shrugged. "You would've done it already. Or you wouldn't have even turned up, you would've just sent all the King's horses and all the King's men to come collect me. Truth is, Ellie, my _dear_ , you're here because you _want_ to be. You're here because you _like_ it."

Elspeth tried to sneer at Moriarty, but she didn't feel very confident. "You're – you're being ridiculous, I'm here because –"

She cut herself off when Moriarty's hand cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking the skin lightly. He treated her like a precious object, something that might break if he handled it too harshly, and Elspeth tried not to pull away when his other hand reached up to do the same to her other cheek. With both his hands cradling her face, Elspeth had nowhere else to look but into Moriarty's dark eyes, which stared back at her with a strange expression. He looked at her like he adored her, like he never wanted to take his eyes off her. Elspeth was even more scared to realise she didn't want to take her eyes off him either.

"You're here because you _like_ it," Moriarty repeated in a low voice.

She didn't move when he leaned in. Moriarty moved slowly, giving Elspeth time to lean away or turn her head if she wanted to, and pressed his lips to hers for a second. All Elspeth felt was the pressure of his mouth and the warmth of his skin and her heart racing so hard it almost stopped, and in a matter of seconds it was over, and Moriarty gazed down at her with such reverence in his eyes Elspeth didn't know what to do or to say.

"How did you do it?" Elspeth asked finally. Her voice didn't shake. "Tell me how you did it."

Moriarty smiled back. "That's for me to know," he murmured. "And _you_ to find out."

* * *

"Flying machines, these – er – telephone contraptions," John said, sitting in his armchair across from Sherlock and smoking his pipe. He couldn't quite believe what his companion was saying. "What sort of lunatic fantasy is that?"

"It was simply my conjecture of what a future world might look like, and how you and I and Elspeth might fit inside it," Sherlock said. Elspeth looked up from her latest attempt at embroidery, which she attended to on the window seat, and smiled at her father across the room. "From a drop of water, a logician should be able to infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara."

"Or a Reichenbach," Elspeth added. She abandoned her embroidery and pulled a chair close to Sherlock's so she could sit beside him. "I think your conjecture of a future sounds wonderful." She especially liked the inclusion of herself in Sherlock's cases. "John, have you written your account yet?"

John nodded, and Sherlock scoffed. "Modified to put it down as one of my rare failures, of course?" he asked. John nodded a second time. "The Adventure of . . . the Invisible Army?" The name didn't sound quite right, and Sherlock thought again for a few seconds. "The League of Furies? The Monstrous Regiment!"

Elspeth rolled her eyes. "I object to your insistence the women be compared to _monsters_."

"I rather thought The Abominable Bride," John mentioned. He'd been playing with the title for several days, and quite liked the sound of that one. Sherlock didn't seem to like it, but Elspeth didn't object that time. In fact, though she screwed her nose up a trifle, her lips twitched into a semblance of a smile and John knew he had her approval. "It'll sell. It's got proper murders in it, too."

"You're the expert," Sherlock said.

"It also has a young female assistant related to the great detective himself," John said. Elspeth looked up at him, her eyes narrowed. "You don't object to your inclusion in the tale, do you? I was rather hoping you would agree – after all, it is a tale concerning the inequality females such as you face every day."

Though she tried to suppress it, Elspeth couldn't help but beam at John's suggestion. "I rather suppose it'll be agreeable to include me in the narrative," she said lightly. "Though if your illustrator so much as _attempts_ to draw me without my consultation, I will be positively livid. I won't have a man drawing me without so much as looking at me."

"Agreed," John said with a smile of his own. "As for your own tale," he added, glancing at Sherlock. "are you sure it's still just a seven percent solution that you take? I think you may have increased the dosage."

"Perhaps I was being a little fanciful," Sherlock admitted. "But perhaps such things could come to pass. In any case, I know I would be very much at home in such a world."

"Don't think _I_ would be," John said, laughing as Sherlock got up and walked across the room to gaze out the window into the street below.

"I most certainly would be," Elspeth insisted.

"I beg to differ, Watson," Sherlock said, giving them both a smile over his shoulder before returning his attention to the streets of London. "But then I've always known I was a man out of his time."

* * *

 _Yes, this is it; the final chapter of Wisdom In The Face Of Danger. Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited, and followed - I couldn't have done it without you!_


End file.
